


Defense Acquisition

by Poose



Series: General Dynamics [3]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bureaucracy, Dirty Talk, First Time, Government Agencies, Hook-Up, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6247921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Dynamics 'verse, Alex and George first time hookup in a conference hotel. Alex is a bratty little shit, but you already knew that I think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defense Acquisition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iniquiticity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/gifts).



Alex is too busy, too goddamn busy, to stop for five seconds and think about whether or not he likes his life. Even his mom, who works 15 hours a day, non-stop, and rides a _bus_ for both legs of the journey, when she calls on Sundays, wants to know the answer: if he’s happy, if he’s found someone.

And look, you don’t tell your mother — _Yeah, sure, I found someone at Nellie’s on karaoke night, when I’d slept for maybe eight hours in three days and we went at it in an alley. That ended up lasting for most of the summer, until he went back to California, got recruited for a fucksticks-rich job in the Valley. Yeah, I hit some tourist on the head with my bike on the escalator, because the fucking elevator’s been out since Christmas, but I bought him a drink, made up for it in the only way I know how. Yeah, I found someone, guy from grad school, ran into him at the Union Station Starbucks and that went on until his boyfriend found out. No, I didn’t know, or, okay, I did know, and didn’t fucking care. _

So he says _no, mama, busy, busy, work_ and that’s the end of that. He has a decent handshake, smarts, an enigmatic energy that stands in for truly average looks. Even if he worked at it, he’d never be _hot_ hot, and who had time for the gym? He barely had time to finish his leftover takeout most days.

He is busy, of course, it’s not a goddamn lie. He doesn’t have time to lie.

 

~*~

 

They’d stuck him on a project for Defense, a huge sprawling mess of a thing: weapons and R&D assets and knowledge-acquisition, whatever the fuck _that_ was, and all it meant was many meetings and many more phone calls and many, many, _many_ more emails. And then there’s his regular workload, on top of the project, ward elections coming up, the Shaw bike lane meetings that are becoming less productive every week and more like barely concealed shouting matches, his landlords’ baby shower; imminent, when was that again? he had to get them a gift, maybe he’d order it online…?

“This report includes observations on the cost performance of Defense’s extensive portfolio...including ninety-six major defense acquisition programs...we analyzed cost, schedule, and quantity data...also compiled individual assessments of seventy-two weapons programs...selection factors include major defense acquisition programs in development or early production, future programs, and recently cancelled programs.”

The only decent thing about these DoD projects, which were filled with literally the worst people on earth, was when Alex read the situation right and, mentally at least, could stave off that question from his mom a little longer: you meet someone?

This time it’s a guy with no wedding ring, older, serious looking, seriously hot. Gray suit with a whiff of coded Italian tailoring, expensive watch, a pen the price of a car payment. Thinking on what’s beneath that suit gets his wheels spinning. Ex-military, he had to be - all these dicks were, but this one was, to be fair, notably more stacked than the thin-haired run-to-seed white guys who seemed to be in high supply as of late. What was it with this town, anyways? 

Alex is at least lucky that he’s smart enough to be able to run a hour and a half long meeting on nothing but a couple forkfuls of Pad Thai and two Pepsis — finesse the report’s stilted government language — shoot down stupid questions about the report, and draw a pretty decent picture of a unicorn in the margins of said report — all the while constructing at least two elaborate fantasies, both involving uniforms, and both featuring asshole number #6, the heavy-eyebrowed man sitting across the table from him. He spins them with himself — very hot, and then with a cuter, twinkier version of himself — one that doesn’t have peanut sauce on his tie. Both are good.

When they finally end, the meeting’s run over. It’s technically after the Fed official workday schedule but hey, he doesn’t make overtime, so who cares?

“Mr. - Washington?” he hedges, hoping that’s the right name. They all bleed into one another after a while. The man turns around and Alex leans across the table, slides his business card along it. “My cell’s on the back, there; it's my direct line, if, you know, you think of anything you’d like to add to what we discussed just now.” If the guy looks quizzical then he just thinks Alex is bent, and if he’s pegged it right, he takes the card.

“Thank you,” he says, and tucks it into his wallet. Alex catches a glimpse of a Virginia driver’s license. Well. He's usually right about these things.

 

~*~

 

A week later Alex is typing with his left hand as he texts with his right, a pot of ramen sputtering away on the stovetop. He’d meant to get up and drain it a minute ago, and to set a timer on his phone, but Peggy had decided to blow him up about with a confrontation she was having with her father, yet a-fucking again, about his political career and her sexuality. He wants to be a good friend, and he knows she needs to vent but work — it waits for no woman.

_if he wants to be pres then he’s going to have to win the gay vote eventually_

_said i was being selfish_  
_putting my own needs above his own_

_what does your sister say?_

_that she can see both sides_

_well that’s bs_  
_what does your other sister say?_

_Don’t see why I should tell her_

_shit, ramen_

The water has boiled over onto the electric coil and steam is hissing out into the unventilated kitchen.

“Fuck,” he says to the wall, when he goes to pull off the pot without a mitt and it scalds him. The doorbell rings as he's sticking his fingers in his mouth to cool them down. He startles, then flings the whole pot into the sink.

“Yo." He peeks through the locked door while examining the damage to his hand. It fucking smarts. “Oh hey, Eliza. What’s up?”

She’s radiant as always, her cheeks a little fuller, eyes bright. “You got a package?” She hands over a box from the baby store. He can’t even remember what he got them; he’d been in bed when he bought it, had sorted by price and clicked on the fifth item from the top without even looking at what it was. Expensive but not outlandish — he does pay them rent, after all.

“Are you sure you should be carrying that?” he asks, taking it from her and setting it on the floor. It’s not crazy heavy, but still. “Should’ve sent Aaron.”

“He’s busy babyproofing,” she tells him, “and it’s okay. I’m not an invalid. Like, I can still go to yoga sculpt? I just can't do twists anymore.”

“That seems premature,” Alex says, in reference to the babyproofing. “Don’t they spend at least a couple of months lying on their backs?”

“You know Aaron,” Eliza sighs. “He likes to be prepared. But you’re right, I mean, he set up the crib the weekend after we got the test results back.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Our stroller was picked out eight months ago.”

“Hey,” he folds his arms. “Have you talked to your sister?” If anyone could placate Peggy it would be Eliza. Alex is generally better at riling people up than at calming them down.

She frowns. “Which one?”

“Either one will do.”

“That bad?” Alex nods. Eliza exhales the sigh of a perpetually put-upon middle child, and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Need anything?” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the tiny kitchen. “I have noodles.”

She grimaces. Picky about food even before she got pregnant, now tons of random smells make her queasy, which is probably what the heavy fug of pasta water drifting out from his basement is doing. “I’m good,” she says, with a light touch to her stomach to indicate that her nausea is indeed acting up. He steps back and lets the glass door close as she waves goodbye and heads upstairs.

The noodles are soggy now, but they’re cooked and still hottish so he sloshes them into a bowl, opens the beef seasoning packet and dumps it straight on top. He eats it with a fork — easier that way — the taste inconsequential but the harsh sting of MSG pleasurable on his tongue, while he looks over the fifth and hopefully at this point, final draft of the stupid fucking Defense thing.

His phone vibrates with an unknown number, not Peggy, so he ignores it. Eliza will take care of that mess. Schuyler sisters, man, they’re a handful. He checks the message, slurps. One digit, a 4, from an unknown number. A butt dial from an old hookup, most likely, he thinks, and returns to his noodles and his work.

 

__~*~_ _

 

There’s another project, months down the line. More contractors, a parade of them, who insist that their VPN is up to compliance standards, altogether better than anything the Fed can provide; one in particular, some UVA meatsuit who looks like his skin’s made of boiled ham, tries to lecture Alex — _Alex!_ — on the importance of transparency and government accountability to the taxpayer, and it takes every screed of his self-control to remain seated and move assuredly on to the next agenda item rather than do what he wants to, which is to jump onto the table and shout about the dubious legality and, _hello_?, moral consequences of unchecked drone warfare. His head hurts, probably because this marks the third day in a row that he’s pulled out the same cardboard box of leftovers, set it on his desk for a couple of hours while he makes phone calls, and then put it away without having taken so much as a single bite.

“Did you need to make a call or something?” he asks one of the lingering Defense guys, who’s lurking as Alex gathers up the discarded copies of the agenda and stuffs them into the recycling bin. They really should go paperless. He'll have to write a memo. “Because this room needs to be free by four.”

“Are we finished for the day?” the man asks, with trepidation. Alex shakes his head yes — obviously they're adjourned? — and says, “Yeah? I have to get back to my office. Can we walk?”

“All right,” he answers, and as they turn to leave he opens the door for Alex, holds it wide open with his left hand, placed almost exactly at eye level — a hand which is conspicuously missing a wedding band — _ah_. The ball drops, then. He tried to pick this guy up a while back. Read the situation wrong. It happens. Always worth a shot. You miss 'em if you don't take them. It’s bugging Alex, though, that he can’t remember his name.

Then as they make their way down the hall the man says, cryptically, “I think I might go out for dinner tonight before I head back. Wait out the Friday traffic.”

“Good call,” Alex turns the knob, and then swears. “Goddamn it,” he says, shoving the stuck door of his office open with his hip before resuming the conversation. “You live in the burbs? I don't blame you, the only other option is to be a gentrifying asshole. Traffic is so fucked in this town — and the shit they call mass transit? Christ no, it’s why I ride a bike. Fucking Virginia drivers though, they’re the absolute worst. Like, where do you think you’re going? Nobody's moving and besides, rush hour on K Street is not the time to go all Fury Road —”

“I’m from Virginia, young man,” the guy interrupts with a steely voice.

“Well, good for you,” Alex says, and pulls a face. “It’s still three feet of clearance on either side, I don’t make the rules, right?”

The man nods, not like he’s going to listen. _Virginians_ , they’re all the fucking same. Then he tells Alex, “I’m going to the Omni in Adams Morgan.”

“Isn’t that a conference hotel?” he asks, faint amusement coloring the observation. “That seems like a bad choice. Do you need a restaurant rec or something?” He pulls up Yelp before he's finished asking, scrolls, winces at the options. “I’ll be honest with you, small plates is still a huge thing here. Blame José Andres, man, but tapas like will not die. Is it just you? That’s really better with a couple of people, but fewer than four — and look, everywhere on 14th is like, the same iteration of one restaurant,” he flicks over to email, Twitter, texts, email, email — right, Yelp — “you could pick any one of them, I’m sure they’re all fine.”

“Small plates are overrated,” observes the man and Alex agrees without looking up from his screen. “No shit.”

“The Omni, I think. A lot of people come and go,” he says, like it’s significant, and then he gives Alex a look that is also, come to think of it, significant.

“Do I have your number?” he asks, because enough already with the tinker tailor bullshit. “I could text?”

“No,” he interjects with a cautioning hand and a wary glance over his shoulder. “No phones. I’ll be in the bar at seven-thirty. The Omni,” he repeats.

“Right,” Alex shifts his stack of papers and looks in through the doorframe. Jesus, his desk really is a mess. It would be easier to set it on fire than try to clean it. "Well, this is me.”

Only after he has closed the door does he at last remember the guy’s name.

__

__~*~_ _

 

“Washington,” he says to the cocktail waitress, “George Washington. Charge it to the room, please.”

George, as Alex has been invited to call him, has placed an order for bourbon so specific that he legit zoned out listening to it. Funnily enough, there is actually a conference going on, he was right about it being that kind of hotel, but it’s drying up, on its last legs. Stragglers linger, rolling suitcases and laptop bags parked beside their barstools as they wait for their late night West Coast flights, their northbound express trains.

Alex gets a white wine of unspecific origin. It tastes a few steps up from shitty, like cold and sour flint.

“You got a room? That’s kind of presumptuous,” he says, baiting. George gives Alex a look that says if he wanted, he could have him ( _disappeared/waterboarded/black-bagged/tortured/imprisoned in Romania_ , take your pick) but he chooses not to, simply because Alex does not merit that degree of interest. It makes his face burn to be scrutinized so openly, and he takes a hurried sip of his shit wine. The look raises a conflicted impulse in him — the first inclination is to push as hard as he can and see what transpires, which, as a rule, is a blast, whoever happens to be on the other end of his bratty behavior — and then there is a much rarer desire, felt only with select men, where he wants to please, weird enough, and yet — and yeah, it’s fucked up, okay? — to be found deficient. Wanting.

Sitting here, polite and public like it’s more than a prelude to what Alex hopes will be a very satisfactory bout of getting his ass handed to him on a tray, feels, frankly, like a waste of time. George isn’t exactly a brilliant conversationalist: he reads boring books, doesn't watch Netflix, and gets the fucking Post delivered every day. In print? _Still?_

“Did you want food?” George asks, when the waitress reappears, and Alex thinks he’d rather not deal with the aftermath of eating, not when he's dying to get railed like he is right now. So what if he’s starving? Actually, did he even eat today? He swallows another mouthful of mid-tier wine, and wags his head no. “I’m cool,” he says, and then taps his foot nervously against the table leg.

George limits himself to the one drink, he notices. Alex orders a second. This time around he picks a marginally higher price point, a Rosé. It’s better, _drinkable_ as the pretentious phrasing has it, but it makes his cheeks stain hot. Fucking tannins. 

“You’re fidgeting,” George points out, and his eyes flick down to the napkin that he’s shredded into anxious ribbons. He talks hardly at all, yet notices everything. Alex has spent the last twenty-six minutes of their one-sided conversation wondering what George fucks like, and then snatching himself away from the thoughts, because no way will the act live up to what he’s imagining. Men that attractive rarely fuck like porn stars, depending instead on their musculature to do the work for them. That works too, he'll take what he can get. 

“I have a hard time holding still,” Alex says, with a rare flash of self-deprecation, then adds, “but, you know, I wouldn’t mind —” he reaches across the table, past his wineglass for George’s wrist, but he’s all military reserve and closeted decorum, and pulls back, recoiling with a physical flinch like he’s been burned with a piece of red-hot metal.

“Sorry,” Alex says, tensing himself at the immediacy of the reaction, then sits back up and blinks. George opens and closes his hand, flexing the fingers just below his field of vision. Alex grasps the stem of his glass and swirls the wine in a dumb move that only makes him feel fancy. He drains it and asks, “Are we done here?”

George reaches into his inner breast pocket and pulls out a key card. The room number is written on the little paper envelope that covers it. “Go upstairs. Take a shower. Have another drink if you want. The minibar has wine.”

He slips the key into his hip pocket as he rises from the booth. “You trust me alone in your hotel room? With an open minibar?" 

“I trust myself to know where to find you,” George says, darkly, which bypasses the question Alex asked and answers, instead, something else, a question he's not entirely sure he wants the answer to.

Because, look, Alex rarely deals in _nervous_. _Ballsy_  is a word people use to talk about him. _Gutsy. Persistent. Belligerent. Charming. Exhausting_. These he’s been called in spades, and worse things besides. He owns it ( _upstart/new money/immigrant/pain in the ass/whore_ ) takes it all in stride. When George looks at him, though — like he could open Alex up from the inside and not even break a sweat while he did it — then nervous seems too faint a word. Terrifyingly elated might begin, just, to cover it.

Alex stands up, dizzy from the wine and the churning hunger pangs in his stomach and walks out of the bar over to the elevator bank. He can feel George’s eyes on him as he walks away.

 

~*~

 

The room itself is generic and comfortable, a step up from the government contract-bid hotels he knows all too well. Alex loosens his tie and drops it on an armchair. As he heads for the bathroom he leaves a trail of clothing discarded in his wake. With its polished beige fixtures and tiny plastic bottles of shampoo, faint smell of lemon, the bathroom is also boringly familiar. His boxers are the last thing he removes before he turns on the shower. After giving it a second to heat up, he steps in and peels back the paper back from the embossed soap. Everything smells faintly citrusy after he’s washed and rinsed it, and he stands for a minute beneath the faucet, head bowed, as water rolls down across his forehead and forearms.

There’s a complimentary blowdryer but he towel-dries instead. He uses a second towel to blot off the excess water and then grabs a dry one for his waist, leaving the other two sodden and wadded up on the tile floor. The top bedspread has been removed and the sheets turned down. Over on the nightstand, George has made thoughtful preparations: a box of condoms, unopened; a tube of KY, which makes Alex smile at how old-school it is; a couple hotel-branded bottles of water; and, as a finishing touch, a minbar tin of mixed nuts. Huh. Apparently he’s in it for the long haul then. He texts Eliza and asks her to bring in his mail.

Thrumming with anticipation, Alex flops back onto the bed, debates opening the nuts, and settles instead for a bottle of water which he rests in the crook of his arm. He flips between open tabs on his phone — FiveThirtyEight, his email, Twitter, some porn, texts, back to email, porn, text, email, email, always fucking email — when he hears the chirp of the key sensor and then the creak of the door. He kicks his way over to the center of the bed in an attempt to look nonchalant and alluring when George enters the room, shoves a hand behind his hand and poses in his towel. Locks click into place and the bathroom door, which he left wide open, is also closed. The overhead lights are dimmed to a third of their usual brightness, a few lamps flicked on instead.

“Hey,” he says, as he turns the phone face down and shoots George one of his most charming half-grins. He acknowledges the smile, though spares Alex one of his own. Instead he makes straight for the window and, after peering out of it, confirms that the drapes meet in the middle and that no gap remains between them. They are cloaked, invisible from the world outside. 

And then, without so much as a salutation or a preamble, he removes his jacket and then his tie. His shoes also come off but the socks stay on. He walks over to the bed slowly and deliberately, in silence. It really is like porn in that respect, like he’s given Alex the once over, sized him up, saw something in him: his hunger, his ambition, who knows — and that was all the confirmation he needed. Well, at least he bought him a drink first, that was classier than most porn.

When he sits down the mattress settles to accommodate his weight and then he reaches out an arm and touches his hand to Alex’s shin. Jesus, he wants more of those hands, wants them on his face, his body, fuck, inside of him. The hairs on his leg prickle as George rubs a thumb over his anklebone; his toes flex in anticipation. _Fuck me up,_ Alex thinks, _you look like you’re game._

“You kiss?” Alex asks, and lets his legs drape open a little more. The fluffy white towel is full-sized and everything remains hidden, but the gesture is there. _I’m available, I’m open, I’m so fucking hot for you._ “Jesus, do you talk?” Without answering either of the questions verbally, George answers the first in the affirmative. He tastes like bourbon; he kisses Alex like he's drowning, like they're both under water.

And, fuck. _How._ Alex likes to be taken advantage of, but he hardly ever gives it up this quickly. George straddles him, trapping the towel between their bodies. He is heavy, even taking some weight onto his own hands, and if he dropped down to his forearms he could quite easily expel all the air from Alex’s lungs, and suffocate him. He paws at George’s crisp blue shirt, the faint smell of cologne emanating from beneath it. “Take this shit off,” he says, pressing the flat of his hands to the other man’s firm pectoral muscles.

George sits up, unbuttons his cuffs, then the top and bottom two buttons of his shirt and pulls it off over his head. Underneath that is a white undershirt which joins the button-down on the ground. Yep, stacked as hell. His watch is still on, though, and the silver band scrapes against Alex’s thin wrist as they go back down, George now pinning his hands beneath his own, Alex rutting pathetically against George’s thigh.

“Fuck,” he says, and turns his head to the side so George can bite at his neck. The terrycloth is soft but manages to chafe nonetheless, and between that, and the fact that he’s being held down — gently, of course, he could wriggle free at any time — and that George is a lethal kisser, a ferocious kisser which — of course he is, it’s a tactical move for him, a precision strike, and strike he does. He rubs his stubbled cheek across Alex’s mouth and his chapped lips tingle with the sensation. When George finally pulls away some long minutes later, Alex is winded, thin chest heaving. His lips are sore. His dick is, unsurprisingly, ten thousand percent on board. 

George is on board, too. Alex can feel it through the fabric and the towel, and he pushes on George's chest with his shoulder. He pulls back with a concerned look and Alex says, "turn over?" He gets him sat up against the headboard, drops kisses all over his pecs, his shoulders, his abdomen. All the while he rubs at the hard line of his cock through his pants, which is packed up tight and hard, seriously, like a fucking pistol. He spends a lot of time massaging it, and his balls, too, because the tease is almost as pleasurable as the unwrapping. George groans while he does it, squeezes Alex's upper arm hard enough to leave fingertip bruises. 

He goes for the belt, then, the zipper and the underwear. And, hey. Forget wine, food, all that pretentious shit. Alex is a goddamn connoisseur of dick and this, here? This is top-of-the-line, Grade A, USDA Choice. He wants to take it out for dinner and get to know it better, ask it about its hobbies and what it majored in in college. 

“Oh,” Alex says, and sucks in a breath. “Yeah, well, okay.” He brushes his hair back from his eyes so he can get a better look. “My birthday was in January, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

In his hand it is smooth to the touch. He ducks his head down for a quick taste. His skin is blood-hot and fuck, he’s so goddamn hard. Alex manages a few exploratory licks, a couple of shallow sucks before George growls and pushes him over onto his side. The towel comes open of its own accord, and George yanks it off the rest of the way so that Alex is naked beneath his unzipped trousers, his absolutely beautiful dick out, naked and gleaming already.

“God,” he says as he’s rolled onto his stomach, licked and probed and prepped. “God I cannot wait for you to fuck me with that thing.”

George gives him his tongue, his fingers, slick with the KY, until Alex is useless and babbling. “Seriously, man,” he whines, fists balling against the sheets. “I’m here. I showed up, I RSVPed to this party, fucking get on with it.”

He pulls away and gives Alex a hearty smack on the ass that has his blood singing. “Definitely do that again,” he insists, rolling his hips against the empty air, “I mean, while you’re fucking me. Speaking of, man, are you there yet?” 

From behind him, George grunts a noise of assent. Every sound is amplified as if in stereo. The pants come off with a slither; the condom box is opened with a papery noise; there is the soft squelch of a condom coming free from its packet; the agonizing moment of waiting while it’s rolled on. Alex cranes his head, but the cheeks of his ass block George from his line of vision, so he settles for arching his back, sticking his ass out and moving it in little circular motions like he’s dancing salsa. George grumbles out a curse and rests the head of his cock in the crack of his ass, then traces a white-hot line down the length of it, from his lower back to his perineum, up and down until he’s bowed back and forward, until he begs for it.

“Give me your cock,” he pleads, “Know you want to fuck this ass, come on, want it, want to feel that fucking dick in my throat, come on. Put it in, yeah, put it in.”

At long last George levels him out with a hand on his hip, tucks his pelvis down from where he's arched up and pushes inside. "Oh.” He exhales, shakily, and lets himself take it. George finds his tempo in a relaxed, medium speed where he’s pushing in further and further with every thrust. Once Alex feels his asshole being stretched around the thick base of that perfect, beautiful, powerful cock, he lets his mouth run like he’s moved to do when he’s getting pounded good and this, this is very, very, _very_ good.

“Fuck, fuck that’s so good,” he growls, and bangs his fist down again. 

“Jesus,” George chokes out, “Figures you’d be a talker.”

“S’what I’m known for,” he slurs, “Always got something to say, that’s - fuck, man, like wear it out - that’s me.”

The thrusts slow then to a sticky pace and Alex whines from deep in his chest. He drops to his forearms and George immediately pulls him up, one big hand on his belly yanking him back onto all fours. His hands tighten into fists and each tap against his prostate has him pounding on the sheets. He could come like this, the thought comes in a dizzy rush, just as George lays another smack on his ass and then, with both hands, squeezes the cheeks of his ass together, tight, and holds him there. Alex gulps in air, gnashes his teeth, and then finally demands what he came here for. 

“Pull out,” he says, frantically, because he can't not see this. He worms his way onto his back and sticks his fingers into his own ass. He's been worked over good; they slip in easily. 

"You too," he says, nodding at George's dick. He slides off the condom, tosses it on the floor. 

“Fuck,” Alex says, head tipping back as he fists his own cock. He cannot tear his eyes away from the sight, George’s big hand wrapped around his dick, dipping and lowering to gather his balls and the base of his cock in his palm, and then giving it a thorough tug, testicles and all, that looks unbelievably filthy and even though he’s no longer being pounded into the mattress, Alex talks anyway.

“That’s so hot, man, Jesus, your dick is so hot, want to see you come, come up here, let me see it, let me have it, fuck—”

It hits his stomach, comes out in a hot arc of four powerful pulses and when the first one lands, Alex is gone, eyes wrenched shut as he plays with himself and his mess joins the other one on his stomach.

There's a few moments of silence before George gets up and retrieves Alex's towel from the floor. He wipes his cock with it, passes a hand over his face, wipes his hands clean. 

Alex shoves up from the bed and goes to piss and clean himself up. He's humming happily as he washes his hands. Standing at the side of the bed, blissfully naked and happily orgasmed into silence, Alex picks up his phone, eyes the damage done in his absence from being online.

“Turn that off,” George says, with annoyance. He stalls for time, answers, “I'm just checking my email.”

“Off,” George repeats.

“Is that an order?” Alex asks. George takes the phone from him, turns it off, stashes it in the drawer of the nightstand, then hands him the tin of nuts and the room service menu.

“What do you want?" he asks, reaching for the landline. “I'm fine,” Alex starts to protest, and George says, “make a decision or I'll make it for you.”

Alex flops back onto a pillow. “Make it, then,” he says with a snarl, but it's toothless, fucked out of him for the moment. “It doesn't matter.”

George gets them cheeseburgers (medium-rare), fruit salad, a decent bottle of wine, a piece of chocolate cake, two Sprites. The room is theirs for two days. They use up all twelve of the condoms, and Alex has to get a ride back to his, because he's way too torn up to sit on his bike.

**Author's Note:**

> The unicorn doodle [is a real thing](http://image.minyanville.com/assets/FCK_May2009/Image/June2010/hamilton1.jpg) taken from Hamilton's powder horn. It gives me great pleasure.


End file.
